


all ghosts return

by mirkandmidnight



Series: author's favorites [1]
Category: Tuck Everlasting - Miller/Tysen/Shear & Federle, Tuck Everlasting - Natalie Babbitt
Genre: Alternate Universe, Civil War, Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-11 23:42:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10477215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirkandmidnight/pseuds/mirkandmidnight
Summary: Miles survives. Miles always survives.





	

**Author's Note:**

> You can thank Kate for this one, guys. I am sorry.

The day that Miles wakes up and finds that the country is at war with itself, it's a day much like the one Rose left him on. That is to say, it's beautifully clear and cloudless, with a hint of a breeze. It's really just typical of his life. If one thing would have been on his side, he would have thought it would be pathetic fallacy, but apparently even that's too much to ask.

It's April 12, 1861, and it feels like the world is ending, but then, that's nothing new. Miles stays in his tiny flat in New York and watches the world go by without him, and for the most part, that is enough. It's better that he stays alone. He won't be hurt if he stays by himself.

(Miles knows that isn't true, but sometimes it's just nice to be able to lie to himself, if only for a little while.)

It's three months later when he's walking in the street, looking down at his shoes to avoid the dirty looks he's getting from random passerby. He hasn't done anything wrong, why are they staring, he's just trying to make it just like anyone else so why won't they stop looking at him-

An older woman approaches him, gaze flinty. "A young man like yourself ought to be on the front lines," she says. "Not loafing about."

"What?" he says. But she's gone, her gray shawl and hat quickly disappearing into a neighboring storefront. Miles watches her go and considers it. 

There isn't anything particularly wrong with being a soldier, he thinks, and it isn't like he has anything better to do. He doesn't care enough about states' rights to make that a reason to fight, but if any other soldiers know why they're fighting, he's yet to hear of it. The papers say the Union needs men like it needs cotton factories, and he has to be good enough for this, at least.

So Miles wears his wedding ring on a chain around his neck, dons Yankee blue and reports to training, learns to use a musket and bayonet, and how to kill a man in ten different ways using only his bare hands. This isn't exactly standard knowledge, but the grizzled old man who'd fought in the Mexican-American War teaches him late at night and pretends not to know him during the day. Miles also learns two more ways he can't die (surprise, surprise), but if pistols and slitting his wrists hadn't worked, why should a musket or a bayonet?

He doesn't write his family, doesn't know where they are to write them, nor would he do it if he knew. Ma would only worry, and he doesn't know what Pa or Jesse would do if he told them.

Miles wonders if they ever feel like their souls are too big for their bodies, like one day, they'll explode from the weight of all they've seen, if they ever feel like nothing and everything all at once. But he doesn't write, and he doesn't ask.

His unit is sent towards Virginia, stopping to participate in minor skirmishes along the way. They lose two men to infection, and he starts to gain a reputation. No matter what odds they're facing, he's never injured, to the point that the others joke that he must have sold his soul to the Devil.

Sometimes that's what it feels like, being Miles. 

It's hell, walking in silence, carrying a pack half his weight on his back, wondering if Confederate soldiers will be around the next corner, ready to take them all down in a sudden burst of gunfire. It wouldn't hurt him, of course, but the others have wives and families to get back to, and there's a boy in their unit who can't be more than eighteen, with blue eyes and a laugh that sounds like Jesse's.

He's too young for this. How did he get roped into this war, a conflict he's barely old enough to participate in, and decades too young to understand?

His name is Edward, and when they're camped by the roadside one night, he plops down next to Miles, who's sitting as far away from the others as he can manage. Miles looks up from his tin of beans and raises an eyebrow.

Edward hands him half of his biscuit, and Miles takes it. There's no telling when he'll eat next-actually, that's a lie. He knows exactly when he'll eat next, and he knows exactly what it'll be. Stiff biscuit and cold beans, tomorrow night.

Anyway. He's learned to take food when it's offered. But that doesn't mean he has to play nice.

"Why don't you talk to anyone?" Edward asks.

Miles shrugs and swallows half the biscuit in one bite. "Maybe I don't like other people. You ever think that?" He winces internally. That was too harsh, and he knows it. 

But Edward just looks at him, half a smile on his face. "You're strange," he pronounces. "I'm going to be your friend."

Miles knows he shouldn't let this happen, that it's only going to end badly for both of them, but then, he's never been good at not doing things he knows he shouldn't do. So he lets Edward get close, lets himself learn all about Edward's girl back home, about the apprenticeship he's going to get when the war is over, and knows it isn't going to last. But Edward reminds him of Jesse, and if Jesse were here, he would try to protect his brother.

There's no reason he can't try to protect someone else.

They reach the outskirts of Richmond, Virginia, on June 24th, and it's a muggy, humid day. They make camp, and while the others are sitting around the fire, joking and laughing with each other, Miles sits in his tent and polishes his musket. Miles digs the whetstone from his pocket and sets to work sharpening the bayonet, then the knife he'd stolen from a dead soldier in-well, somewhere. He does not think of Rose and Thomas. He does not wonder if they ever think of him.

That would be foolish.

"Miles?" Edward pokes his head through the tent opening and peers inside. Miles sets the whetstone to one side and looks at him. There are dark circles under his eyes, and tension in every line of his body. At this moment, he looks every inch of his very few years.

"What?" he says. Edward comes into the tent, stooping to avoid hitting his head, and sits down on the hard dirt floor. He hesitates, and Miles goes back to sharpening his dagger. He'll talk when he wants to, if he wants to.

"Are you afraid?" Edward asks, and Miles pauses mid-stroke. He considers the question for a moment.

"No." He doesn't lift his head. It's the truth. What's the worst that can happen to him? It's not like he's going to die in battle any time soon.

There's another long silence, before Edward takes a deep breath. "I am," he says.

Miles sets down the whetstone and looks at Edward. God. He's just a kid, really. He takes a deep breath. "Don't worry too much. Just stick close to me, and I'll make sure you come through all right."

"Promise?" Edward asks, his voice going funny and choked.

"I promise."

They attack the Confederate troops just before dawn, lining up in the semi darkness, every button done up tight and every boot polished. Miles is near the left end of the line, Edward beside him, a bundle of nervous energy. He bounces up and down on the balls of his feet, trying to see over the many heads and shoulders. Poor kid is at least three inches shorter than Miles.

"What's happening?" he asks.

Miles sighs. "We're waiting."

"Yeah, I figured as much," Edward says. "What are we waiting for?"

"The signal?" There are times Miles wants to shake this kid. "We're to take the railroad tracks. It's an important strategic front-" but then he's cut off by the blast of the bugle, and Edward is pulling him forward into a run towards the enemy encampment. They're halfway when the ground shakes with cannon fire and he hears screaming. Ahead, a Confederate soldier sticks his bayonet through a man's chest.

Ambush.

_Shitshitshitshitshit._

Miles stops in his tracks, yanking Edward back with him. "Ambush," he says, raising his voice to be heard over the gunfire and screaming. He looks around, and it's chaos. Tents are on fire, and there are at least ten dead men on the ground. He can't tell if they're Union or Confederate, doesn't care in that moment. He needs to not be one of them.

Edward whirls to face him, eyes wide and face streaked with smoke and ash. "What do we do, oh god, Miles-"

He snaps to a decision. "We get back to our encampment. Stick close to me, and don't look back." Miles grabs Edward's elbow and starts back in the direction they'd come from, straining to see through the smoke and fog. Someone could sneak up on them in a second, and they'd never see him coming. 

Edward stays close behind him, hands whiteknucked on his musket and eyes wide. He stumbles over-something, and just catches himself when a man in Confederate gray runs out of the smoke, brandishing the end of his bayonet and yelling a war cry. Miles doesn't think. He spins his musket like a quarterstaff and knocks the other man's bayonet away, then fires.

The man goes down, and he doesn't get up.

Miles ignores the blood pounding in his ears and his heart racing in his chest. He looks back at Edward, face set in grim determination. "We have to move. Now."

They make their way through the smoke back to back, watching for any others. In the distance, he can hear the faint sound of cannons and gunshots. Miles glances around. He can see trees in the distance, which is where they'd camped the previous night. If there are any survivors, that's where they'll be.

He taps Edward's arm and points towards the trees. "That way. Let's go." There's a distinct snapping sound, like something moving in the nearby underbrush, and Miles hesitates for a split second before turning. A Confederate soldier bursts from the underbrush not ten feet from him and races forward, musket pointed squarely at the center of Miles's chest.

Edward is faster. He shoves Miles out of the way, placing himself in front of the soldier. The gun's report is deafening. 

Miles doesn't look to see where the shot went. He launches himself at the man, taking advantage of his need to reload, and manages to get an arm around his throat. Miles sticks his bayonet through the man's back and lets him fall.

He pulls the bayonet out of the man's back with an ugly squelching noise, then looks around. "Edward?"

When Miles spots him, his heart leaps into his throat, and for a moment, he can't breathe. Edward is on the ground, lying on his back, limbs akimbo. But more concerning than that is the bloody wound in his side. So that's where the shot went.

Miles hurries to kneel by his side. Edward's eyes are fixed on a distant point, and for a second, Miles thinks he's dead. But then he takes a shuddering breath, and some of the tension in Miles's shoulders eases. Not much, though. He's no doctor, but he knows a mortal wound when he sees one.

Edward grabs his fingers, his grip surprisingly strong. "Is he dead?" he asks, eyes wide. "Are you hurt?"

And it's incredible, really. Even on the brink of death, Edward's first thought is Miles's well-being. And the worst of it ist hat there was no need for Edward to try and protect him. You can't kill Miles Tuck. He knows. He's tried.

His eyes burn, and Miles blinks a few times to keep the tears at bay. He takes a deep breath and squeezes Edward's hand, forcing a smile. "It's all right. He's dead. I'm fine."

Edward coughs, and blood spatters his cheek. "Did I do well?"

"You did just right," Miles assures him. He can't help the crack in his voice. "You hear me? You did so well." God. This is his fault. He should have been able to do something. He'd told Edward he'd keep him safe. He promised. 

"You just rest now," he says. "Don't try to talk much. You're going to make it out of here. The two of us, together."

Edward smiles sadly. "I don't think so." He coughs again. "Can you do something for me?" With fumbling hands, he reaches into the front pocket of his shirt and presses a battered piece of paper into Miles's hands. "Write to my family and try to explain. They won't understand."

He takes the paper, which now has fingerprints of blood on the surface, and puts it in his pocket. "I will."

"Do you promise?" Edward asks. His voice is softer, now, and his breaths are more shallow. "Promise me."

"I promise," Miles says. "I promise."

Edward squeezes his hand even tighter, crushing his knuckles together, and suddenly Miles is aware of just how young he is. "Miles," he says, his voice rasping. "I'm afraid."

"I know," says Miles.

Edward's breath rattles in his chest a few times before he suddenly goes limp and his eyes fix on a point behind Miles's shoulder. Miles shakes him. "Edward." Nothing. "Edward, come on. Please." His voice breaks, and he's unable to hold back a wracking sob.

Cannonfire crackles nearby. Miles has to go, now. He glances around and gets to his feet, then hesitates, torn. He can't just leave Edward out here by himself, but he also can't carry over one hundred pounds of weight on his own. He looks back at Edward one more time. "I'm sorry," he says.

Miles writes to Edward's family. He tries as best as he can, but he just can't make the words flow in a way that will make them understand why Edward died. He has no gift for words. But he tries as much as he can bear, and sends the letter from the encampment outside Richmond.

He never receives an answer.

He gets transferred to a new unit, there being too few survivors from his old one, and finds that everyone there already knows who he is. He's something infamous, one of the lone survivors from the 3rd New York Volunteer Infantry regiment, and no one wants to speak to him. That's fine with him. He's not here to make friends. He's here to fight a war.

After the next two battles, he catches the other men whispering about him around the campfire. They say he is a demon, moving through the battlefield on silent feet, face smeared with gunsmoke and ash, killing with incredible ruthlessness and brutality. They say he is the soldier no man can kill. 

He doesn't tell them that they're right.

Half the stories of the War Between the States are about ghosts coming home, but they don't tell the stories of the ghosts that never left.

_**Spring 1865** _

The day that Miles Tuck finally comes home, it's a day much like the one Rose left him on. It's really just typical of his life. If one thing would have been on his side, he would have thought it would be pathetic fallacy, but apparently even that's too much to ask.

When he unlocks the door to his apartment, he realizes, with a start, that Jesse is sitting in his kitchen, bare feet on top of the wooden table. He looks up from a book with a beaten leather cover and raises his eyebrows.

"Get your feet off my table," Miles says.

Jesse puts his feet down. "So, you went and fought in a war, and didn't tell any of us."

Miles considers it. "Yeah. Pretty much."

"You want to talk about it?" he asks.

Miles sets his bag down on the wooden table. "No, not really. How did you even get in here?"

"Ma still has that spare key, remember?" Jesse grins, then it falters. "Are you okay?"

For a second, Miles thinks about telling Jesse the truth. He thinks about telling Jesse everything he's done in the last three years, all the people he's killed and all the things he's seen. Then he dismisses the thought. Jesse wouldn't understand.

"I'll survive," he says.

And it's true. Miles always survives.


End file.
